The Price of Dignity
In Shimla, fires weren’t a luxury—they were survival. But dry wood, essential to starting a fire, wasn’t easily found. Forests still surrounded the town in those days—developers had not yet begun their hunger-driven invasion. There was barely any new construction, though curiously, old buildings had a habit of burning down. The official cause? Electrical short-circuits. Whether that was Plan A of the land mafia or pure coincidence, no one could say for sure.
Though kerosene stoves had made their way into households, they were a backup option. Kerosene was distributed in tightly rationed amounts through the Public Distribution System (PDS), recorded meticulously on every family’s ration card. But a stove, however efficient, could never match the soul-warming glow of an angithee—a traditional coal brazier that filled both kitchen and heart with heat.
Each evening, from deep in the hills, came the echo of an axe—thwack, thwack—a rhythmic chant of survival. Somewhere out there, a woodcutter was sweating over his day's load. One of them often rested near our house. Built on a stone platform a step above a sloping trail, our lodge offered a rare flat patch where porters and vendors could unburden themselves.
A lone, weary tree stood nearby, its sparse leaves offering shade that danced in the dappled sunlight filtering over the eastern ridge. The mornings there were magical.
Among the many faces, one remained etched in my memory—Sadhu Ram. Gaunt and sunburnt, he appeared each morning with a bundle of chopped wood tied to his back, calling out in a hoarse voice, "Lakadi le lo!" My mother would always buy from him. Not once did she haggle over price.
“He’s in college,” she told me once. “Sells wood to pay his fees. Buying from him is our way to help.”
One such winter morning, my uncle—recently transferred to Shimla—was brushing his teeth outside with a datun (a twig used traditionally in India for oral hygiene). Sadhu Ram came trudging up with his bundle.
“Parjhayee, lakkad te nayin laini?”
“Sister-in-law, do you need wood?” he called from the path.
My mother’s voice came from inside: “Buy it.”
Uncle called down to the young man:
“Kitne ki deni hai bhai?”
“How much for this, brother?”“Ek rupaye mein le lo, Sir.”
“Take it for one rupee, Sir.”“Ek rupaya? Tera dimaag theek hai?”
“One rupee? Are you out of your mind?”Note: In India’s pre-1970 currency system, one rupee was divided into sixteen annas — similar to how one dollar equals one hundred cents.
“Lelo Sir, chalo chaudha aane de do.”
“Okay, Sir. At least give me fourteen annas.”“Mehnat, hmm. Chori ke liye bhi mehnat karni padti hai.”
“Hard work, hmm? Even stealing takes hard work.”“Ye chori ki nahi hai Sir.”
“This isn’t stolen, Sir.”“Jo ped van vibhag wale khastigrast ghoshit karte hain, unko kharidte hain. Ye lakdi unki hai.”
“We buy trees marked damaged by the forest department. This wood is from them.”“Ullu bana rahe ho? Chor ho tum sab.”
“Fooling me, are you? Thieves, all of you.”“Chhe aane mein lena hai to le, warna lakdi chhod de aur nikal.”
“Take it for six annas or leave the wood here and get lost.”
Sadhu Ram looked at him with tears in his eyes. He folded his blanket—the cushion for his back—and without another word, turned and left. He didn’t take the money. My uncle, meanwhile, strutted off to the Police Lines to share his morning tale with the men over a cigarette and tea.
I told my mother what had happened. Her eyes filled with tears. So did mine.
“Mummy,” I asked, “ab woh apni college ki fees kaise dega?”
“Mummy, how will he pay his college fees now?”
I hesitated, then added:
“Mummy, kya woh lakadhara chor hai?”
“Mummy, is that woodcutter really a thief?”
My mother said nothing. But the silence stayed with me, like the weight of that unanswered question. It still does.
What do you think, dear reader?
Was that woodcutter a thief?